


Lone Digger

by Magpiedance



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Ambiguous Deputy (Far Cry), Bliss (Far Cry), Bloodplay, Canonical Character Death, Forced Voyeurism, Knifeplay, No non-con sex, Non-con situation, Other, Pre-cult, Slight spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 15:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpiedance/pseuds/Magpiedance
Summary: An increasing number of law enforcement have law degrees.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _hey brother what you thinking_
> 
> _that good old sound is ringing_
> 
> _they don't know what they're missing_
> 
> _-_
> 
> (I've had quite a lot of requests to the tune of 'more 'x' brother please' which is not really what I had in mind but okay XD Here's more John.)

You'd heard of John Duncan, of course. Everyone had.

The man was a shark, they said. Ruthless. You never expected to meet him. You never expected to kill him. You never expected to end up in his bed.

Twenty-one years old and three sheets to the wind on a Saturday night in some cheap student club with some stranger's hand on your buttock you would not, for example, have expected to hear his smooth tenor telling your new friend to _get lost_. You would not have expected to turn and see blue eyes examining you like a piece of meat. Your potential paramore, you forget his name, who had gotten you so well lubricated had not taken kindly to being so abruptly usurped. John had simply whispered in his ear and he had left looking like he was going to be sick. You didn't expect that either.

John had turned back to you, then.

“Where were we?” He asked, like nothing had happened.

You laughed. He was charming.

You cocked your head to the side and said “You had better be planning on putting out because I was so getting lucky with that guy.”

John had put his hand on your hip and leaned in bringing his face close to yours and said “You can count on it.”

Then you said “Holy shit.”

You said it again; “ _Holy shit._ You're that guy.”

A pleased grin spread across his face.

“What guy?” As if he didn't know.

“That shit hot lawyer!” You said, not beneath stroking his ego. “We studied one of your cases in class. Fuck!”

He brushed some hair from your eyes and hummed in agreement. “' _Shit hot lawyer_ '. That certainly sounds like me.”

He bought you shots and dragged you onto the dancefloor. One of your friends, who had made themselves absent in the presence of the last guy, shot you a questioning look. You gave her an enthusiastic thumbs up, which John caught. He gave your friend a little wave and she waved back, blushing, clearly a little smitten herself.

His hands roved all over your body as you danced with him. You might have been shocked by the liberties he took if you hadn't been so into it and the more you let him get away with the further he went. You remember thinking to yourself ' _if he fucks like he dances_.'

You didn't have to wait long to find out.

He took you back to his hotel room. It was bigger than your whole student apartment. He pushed you down on the bed and devoured you like he was starving for it. You're pretty sure he ripped your shirt taking it off you. You were so into it, so helplessly turned on by him, by his whole deal. You would have let him do just about anything he wanted.

Which is why when he asked mid-coitus if he could _cut_ you – you didn't say no.

Drunk as you were you grabbed his hips, ceased his thrusting, and said “What?”

He propped himself up on his arms and said “I'd like to cut you, just here.”

He pressed his finger against a point just above you hip.

You looked at him. His pupils were totally blown. You could tell how much the idea excited him. Then you dragged your eyes down his body. His muscular torso was littered with scars.

You asked “Did someone cut you?” And when his face fell you wished that you hadn't.

He kissed you desperately, and resumed rutting you with a renewed intensity, as though he could fuck the question from his mind.

You moaned into his mouth and wrapped your legs around him tighter.

When he at last relinquished your mouth to suck a bruise into your neck you said “Yes.”

And you don't know what possessed you to do it.

“You can,” you had said. “You can do it. That. If you want.”

He froze.

His arms shook with exertion and adrenaline. His breath shuddered in and out of him as he processed what you'd said, his face still pressed into the crook of your neck.

“Yeah?” He said at last, clearly aiming for casual and missing entirely.

“ _Yeah_ ,” you whispered, feeling high on your own bravado.

You trusted him not to cut you too deeply, which looking back on it you most certainly should not have. He didn't though. He took a penknife from the bedside, leading you to wonder how long it had been there, and sliced a shallow cut into your skin. You winced and he followed the blade with his thumb, which he promptly pressed into his own mouth with a groan. You could practically feel his dick throbbing inside of you.

“ _God, yes_ ,” he said, then proceeded to fuck every sensible thought from your head.

You had expected him to kick you out without fanfare in the morning. Instead when he woke to the soft shuffling of you rooting around for your clothes he called you over to the bedside.

He ran his finger lovingly over the angry red line above your pelvis. He even pressed a gentle kiss to it, then looked up at you and said “Don't forget me, okay?”

You laughed and assured him there was no danger of that.

He watched you dress stretched out along the bed with a satisfied look on his face. You blew him a kiss as you walked out the door which made him smile.

You even took steps to make sure the cut scarred. You were young enough to think that kind of thing would make you seem edgy and interesting.

You never saw him again.

Until now.

Standing in a church in the middle of nowhere and Joseph Seed glaring at you with all of God's righteous fury. You see his brother John just over his shoulder. Older now. Somehow even more arrogant. If he recognises you he doesn't show it.

You draw your eyes back to Joseph. His expression projects curiosity about what has you so distracted, but he doesn't turn around to look.

You swallow your nervousness and lock the cuffs into place.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It's not clear to you whether John actually remembers you, or simply recognises his own handiwork.

It was discovered when you were redressed for baptism, which you were unconscious for, so it's hard to say. You don't even know who discovered it. You would assume John must have seen it, but it's not so far fetched to imagine that he has his followers looking out for people marked in a certain way. You wonder how many others bear a similar scar. You wonder how many others actually agreed to it.

Small blue butterflies relax their wings all across John's dinner table.

You are dressed in only a simple white robe, your feet cold, bare. You're pretty sure you aren't wearing any underwear which doesn't bear thinking about.

John is pottering around the kitchen, as best you can tell based on the slight clattering from that direction. You can't imagine he's left you alone without some fail-safe against you simply getting up and walking out. Even if your legs don't feel like they'd hold your weight right now, he simply couldn't be relying on that alone.

Always one to push your luck you haul yourself to your feet anyway. Your head spins and your vision blurs but you don't fall over so you keep going. There's a door. Somewhere. 10 yards might as well be a hundred miles in your current state but you are determined. Never let it be said you didn't at least try.

You never do find out if there's a guard on the other side of that door, however.

You don't even bother looking up to check if John heard the racket you made when you tripped over the rug and crashed into a standing lamp. He has an all-too-predictable look of mirth on his face when he steps into your view line from your position supine on the floor, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

“Would you care for a hand?” He asks, offering one of his.

You shake your head. The floor's just fine.

He pulls you up anyway.

You are reseated at the table and he lifts a glass of water to your lips for you to drink. You try to tell him you're perfectly capable of drinking unaided but actually the water tastes damn good right now and you wonder just how long you were drugged and unconscious for.

You try to take the glass from him but he says “Ah-ah, Deputy,” and pulls it out of your reach. He slides his fingers across your cheek and into your hair. “Allow me.”

He drags the chair behind him a little closer with his foot, and perches on the edge of it, lifting the glass to your lips once more.

“I remember, you know,” he asserts. “You probably think I don't, you must think you're just one of many. And you are. But I remember you, yes I do.”

His eyes are keen, scouring your face.

“You look different. Older, obviously. That was, what, five years ago? I could never forget those eyes of yours though. The way they looked up at me with absolute trust.”

He strokes your hair with affection.

“Yes,” he says. “I remember you.”

He leaves the glass of water on the table and heads back to the kitchen. The window is closer than the door. You wonder if it's locked.

Dinner is a plainer affair than you might have expected, which John apologises for.

“I wasn't expecting guests, you see,” he offers by way of explanation. “I'm normally a very gracious host.”

You're just grateful that he allows you a fork and doesn't try to feed you. You decide it's probably not worth trying to stab him in the hand with it. For all you know he'd be into that.

The Bliss in your system distorts your sense of taste, leaving you unsure if the food is actually any good or if just about anything would taste good right now.

John asks you all about your life since he saw you last. He wants to know about your degree, about your graduation. He asks you questions about your personal life, and your family. Things he never cared to know the last time you spoke. Whatever he wants from you now it's more than a quick fuck.

“Joseph will be attending your cleansing, this evening,” he says, casually.

And there it is.

“You don't want him to know,” you say, carefully.

John tilts his head down meaningfully.

“And nor should you,” he says. “The Father worries about any possible - temptations - from my past life. If he thinks I could be compromised by...”

He trails off, then rallies behind a perfunctory smile.

“He may think it best to remove you from my care. Which would mean giving you to Jacob to be 'broken' or to our dear sister to be lobotomised. I'm sure you don't want that.”

You say nothing.

There's nothing to say. Can you truly expect better treatment at his hands? Considering his well publicised treatment of Hudson. You used to be so proud to have him as a conquest under your belt. You never told anyone, but it was a thought that kept you warm in the dark hours of the night. John Duncan, _the_ John Duncan, had wanted you. You have no idea what John Seed wants.

His hand at your waist brings your attention back to him. His fingers trace the line of the scar at your hip, even through the thin cotton of the robe.

“I would not have expected it to turn out so vividly,” he says, breathily. “Tell me, Deputy, did you help it along, hmm?”

You blush and his gaze turns predatory.

“I see. Such a catch for you, was I?” He drags his chair closer to yours, gets into your personal space. “How you must have bragged to all your friends.”

“I didn't,” you manage to say, “tell anyone.”

He sniffs at that. Disappointed. Then he smirks.

“You wanted to keep me all to yourself, then? How flattering.”

An alarm chimes on his watch, snapping him upright in his seat.

“Alas,” he says. “Time grows short, and I have other things I must attend to.”

He reaches over the table, uncorks a bottle of something unlabelled, but you nonetheless recognise that sickly sweet smell immediately. He pours a small amount into your water and offers it to you.

“I could make you,” he threatens with a toothy smile, “But I don't think you'd like it.”

You know that's no idle threat, so you drink. You swallow as little of it as you think you can get away with before setting the glass down. It wasn't 'little' enough, and the effects are immediate. You're only peripherally aware of hands hooking under your knees as you are hoisted into the air. You are lain down on a cushioned surface and fade into a pastel-green oblivion without further incident.

You stir when you feel a weigh bearing down over you. John, draped over you. His body aligned with yours. You're too Blissed-out, too heavy to move, but you're acutely aware of his hand moving frantically on himself.

His free hand is braced by your head, and his breath is warm and heavy on your face.

“I remember, I remember,” he whispers to you, apparently unaware that you're lucid. “Oh, those eyes. You're going to be the death of me.”

He finishes in your lap, and you feel the wetness of it seep quickly through to your skin. He sighs into the crook of your neck.

“Yours will not be the only sins washed away, tonight,” he says, sounding truly pained.

You close your eyes and drift back into the Bliss.

 


	3. Chapter 3

You never took a life before the day you came to arrest Joseph Seed. You'd never even fired your service weapon in the line of duty.

Now you've seen enough death to know that the bullet in John's gut will kill him long before you could get him to a medical professional.

You toss him your jacket anyway, to press against the wound, and you sit down next to him on the ground.

“In a way I'm glad it was you,” he says, and though he struggles with every breath he seems perfectly at peace with his fate.

“I never really thought I was worthy of the new Eden anyway. Martyrdom's as good an end as any.”

You sigh, and despite everything he's done you pull him gently into your lap.

“You'll never forget me,” he says, and smiles through bloodstained teeth. “Not as long as you live.”

He reaches up to touch your still-bleeding chest.

“Every time you see yourself in the mirror you'll remember my face.”

He seems pleased by this, and since he's dying you decide not to argue. You don't say anything. You simply hold him tightly and stroke his hair.

“I wouldn't have forgotten you anyway,” you admit, eventually. “It used to be a really good memory for me.”

His smile drops at that.

“I'm sorry to have disappointed you,” he says, and he even sounds like he means it.

“The Father is right about you. You truly are something special. I hope he doesn't have to kill you.”

You give him a _look._

“You're so sure I won't kill him?”

John snorts, like you're being preposterous.

“I killed you,” you say.

John looks up at you. His eyes are very blue.

“God never chose me,” he says, very quietly, as though this were some shameful secret. “Not like Joseph. Not even like...”

He swallows, then coughs. He has begun to sweat profusely, and his expression is pained.

“I'm not special. I was the right tool for the job but I've outlived my usefulness. All of these clean souls are better off without me.”

He grabs your hand in a vice-tight grip. His face has begun to go pale.

“Don't forget me,” he insists desperately. “Don't forget me.”

As inured to death as you've become these last weeks there's something singularly upsetting about being this close to it, even if he is your enemy. His begins to gasp, like he can't catch his breath. All you can do is hold him, and hush him while rocking back and forth to sooth him as best you can.

“It's all right,” you try to tell him, “It'll all be over soon.”

He takes one last gasping breath and then goes rigid. A shiver runs through his body as though every muscle spasms at once. The seconds stretch out for an unbearably long moment before he finally goes limp in your arms and his final breath sighs out of him.

One of your tears lands on his face.

You hadn't even realised you were crying.

You bury him on the grounds of his ranch. You drive a wooden marker into the dirt and take out your knife to carve a name into it. You suspect that if you mark it 'John Seed' it won't be long before someone defaces it. For a moment you consider marking the grave 'John Duncan', but given the things you've learned about the Duncan family you can't bring yourself to do that either.

You settle for simply 'John'.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did not mean for this to end so depressingly, sorry about that.

**Author's Note:**

> [Lone Digger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbQgXeY_zi4) by Caravan Palace. If you'd like to make a suggestion I have a tumblr ask box for that [here](https://amagpiedance.tumblr.com/ask).


End file.
